Her Cape, His Couch, and …….

Ever felt like you’re living in a sitcom that never ends, where you’re the lead, the crew, and the catering service too? This piece is a poetic rollercoaster through the mind of a woman who’s constantly “on,” a man trying his best not to mess it up, and finally, the tiny detective in the house—our child—who sees it all, questions it all, and somehow knows way more than expected. Here’s a humorous and heartfelt take on the not-so-simple roles we juggle, stitched together by chaos, love, and too many laundry cycles.

Part 1: The Unofficial Job Description (That Nobody Gave Us)

I woke up at six, my eyes still shut,
Dreamt I ran a nation… oh wait, just my hut.
The kettle’s hissing, kid’s sock’s missing,
My brain’s doing algebra while the dog’s been kissing—
Oh the dog again. On the nose. Now there’s fur in the rice,
And I smile like I’m fine. (But I'm not made of ice.)

I’m the CEO of All That’s Forgotten,
From dentist appointments to clothes that need cotton.
The unpaid therapist, drama queen-tamer,
Finder of remotes, and the curry de-flamer.

I carry the load that no one quite sees,
Like knowing who’s sad just by how they sneeze.
I remember your friends and also your friend’s family's name,
Yet I’m asked why I’m tired. Now isn’t that lame?

No, I didn’t choose to be the glue of this clan,
But if I don’t step in, who the heck else can?
It’s not a complaint—it’s just a small truth,
That we juggle it all, from grandma to youth.

We feel—oh boy, do we feel—deep and wide,
From love’s tiny pinch to betrayal’s landslide.
We don’t switch off just ‘cause the day’s done,
We rewind and analyse just for “fun.”

Yes, we’ll love you like Netflix loves a binge,
But cross us wrong and prepare for the cringe.
We’re not bitter, just highly evolved,
Solving crises with flair that’s never been taught.

It’s not about men, nor a gendered war cry,
It’s just that we notice—we care—we try.
We sense when the energy’s slightly off beat,
We’ll fix it, finesse it, then go make you eat.

We’re not saints or martyrs, nor do we seek praise,
Just some acknowledgment on regular days.
Like, “Wow, you did that and remembered my file?”
Trust me, dear sir, that earns you a smile.

So here’s to the women—those queens of the blur,
Who mother and sister and friend and chauffeur.
Who carry the chaos with sass and a grin,
And make it all look like a medal to win.

Yes, we’re messy and moody and maddening too,
But we’re also the glue that sticks you through.
We’re fierce, we’re flawed, a full-on sensation—
With no holidays from emotional administration.

Part 2: From the Sofa, With Love (A Man’s Ode to The Magic)

I sit on the couch with a snack in my hand,
Watching her whirl like a one-woman band.
She’s stirring a pot, while checking her phone,
While nodding to Zoom calls in a slightly hushed tone.

I blink once—now she’s ironing shirts,
Solving a crisis, applying balm to her hurts.
All while remembering who likes their tea sweet—
And that the plumber arrives at half past three.

She says she's “fine”—which I’ve learned isn’t true.
It means something’s brewing (and not just the stew).
I tread with care, with offerings of chai,
And a slightly panicked, “Shall I help? Can I try?”

But she’s already done it—ten tasks ahead,
And somehow found time to re-stitch the bed.
I’m in awe, I admit, I just don’t understand—
Is there a manual? A guidebook? A magic command?

She cries in the dark, laughs in the storm,
Scolds like a drill sergeant but keeps my tea warm.
She knows when I’m lying—sometimes before me—
And remembers things like, "Your friend’s dog turned three."

She doesn’t “switch off,” there’s no such mode,
Even on holiday, she’s still in decode.
But here’s what I know (and I’ve learned it slow):
Her silence is loud when she wants me to grow.

She loves with a fierceness that scorches the air,
But don’t test her patience—just don’t go there.
She forgives but remembers (not always with grace),
She’ll list all your sins—by date, time, and place.

She’ll joke, “I’m fine, just dying inside,”
Then clean out the fridge and set things aside.
I don’t always get her, I won’t even fake,
But my life without her? A very sad cake.

So hats off, my lady, my north and my map,
You run this whole world while I still misplace the cap.
You're a poem in motion, a puzzle so vast,
And I’m just the bloke trying not to come last.

Epilogue: Same Team, Just Different Shoes
She says:
I don’t want to be Superwoman every day,
But someone has to keep the chaos at bay.
You see crumbs—I see twelve tasks unfurled,
While you wonder when cricket's back in the world.

He says:
I swear I try, though I get it all wrong,
I meant to fold laundry—but the match was on.
You do it so fast, with that laser-sharp eye,
By the time I step in, you’ve already gone by!

She says:
It’s not about speed—it’s just how we cope,
We multitask madness and balance on hope.
But some days, I do wish you’d see through my calm,
And hug me before I set off the alarm.

He says:
Fair enough, love—I’m learning your code,
And while you steer ships, I’ll help lighten the load.
I may not notice the socks in the stew,
But I’m here… and I see the superhero in you.

Together:
So we laugh, we sigh, we fumble, we try,
In this lovely tornado that money can't buy.
Different lenses, same view, same strange race—
Two clumsy dancers… keeping up life’s pace.

And though we might wobble, trip, or misplace,
We find our rhythm, our shared little space.
Not him, not her—not a battle, you see—
Just us, a team… with one “she” on hyper-speed!

While we may bumble on and keep it going, I know my son afar he may be but watches and hears our raves and our rants and I am sure this is what will be his take on us!

Part 3: My Parents: A Case Study in Mild Confusion
(By Yours Truly, The Kid With the Brain)

I live with two humans—nice enough pair,
But I do the thinking around here, to be fair.
Mom's always buzzing with seventeen things,
Dad... well, he looks busy, but mostly just sings.

Mom talks to herself (but also to the fridge),
She forgets her keys, but remembers who hid
The remote last Tuesday (which wasn't me!)
Her eyes do that thing—like a human lie-pee.

Dad, on the other hand, is calm as a lake,
Until the Wi-Fi goes down. Then earthquake.
He folds clothes like he’s building a tent,
And calls it “helping.” I know what he meant.

Their rules are a puzzle, full of great mystery:
“Don’t snack before dinner!” (Unless Dad’s hungry.)
“Bed by nine!” (Unless there’s a show…)
They say "no screens" while scrolling below.

I observe, deduce, connect the small dots—
Like how Mom cries during old movie plots,
Or how Dad laughs too hard when he’s wrong,
And bribes me with cookies to “move things along.”

They think they teach me? Oh please, I know—
That cereal is faster when poured real slow.
That Mom’s “I’m fine” needs immediate cake,
And Dad’s “we’ll see” means “nope, no break.”

But here’s the twist in my grand deduction—
They run this house with love in abundance.
They yell, they sigh, they totally miss cues,
But somehow they win, and never quite lose.

So yes, I’m the brain—detective, and pro—
But these two weirdos? They help me grow.
With hugs and bad jokes, and burnt toast too,
They make life messy… but full of true.